


(Echoes of You) Repeating from the Beating of Your Tell-Tale Heart

by faerie_wings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Assisted Suicide, Depression, Gen, Gratuitous use of parentheses, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Murder, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pseudonyms, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22321702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerie_wings/pseuds/faerie_wings
Summary: "He’s all alone this time. Well, he’s been alone before, but it wasn’t this deep, never this deep. The loneliness embeds itself in his very soul, deep down, so deep that Jaskier is surprised that he’s alive when there’s a blade of emptiness penetrating his very being."---It’s time to kill off another alter-ego. Geralt stops him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 244
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	(Echoes of You) Repeating from the Beating of Your Tell-Tale Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Echoes of You" by Marianas Trench
> 
> Quotes from S01E05 "Bottled Appetites" and S01E06 "Rare Species" of The Witcher by Netflix

He’s all alone this time. Well, he’s been alone before, but it wasn’t this deep, _never_ this deep. The loneliness embeds itself in his very soul, deep down, so deep that Jaskier is surprised that he’s alive when there’s a blade of emptiness penetrating his very being. 

He winces, he’s always exaggerating, never speaking plainly, always relying on metaphors to explain things he’s never experienced. Like love. He falls in love every day and with everything and everyone, but he’s never really experienced the true pain of falling in love so deep that there are scars that can never be erased.

There he goes again, talking his absolute bullshit - he’s such a pathetic little… he doesn’t think that he’s good enough. Wait, no that’s wrong, he _knows_ that he’s not good enough, he’d never _been_ good enough in the first place; he’d just deluded himself into thinking that he deserved to travel with someone like Geralt. 

He’d felt like this before, but it wasn’t this hopeless, and it had _never_ felt like this before. It had never felt like he was worthless. (That’s a lie. He remembers the feeling of his father’s hand, belt, _words_ striking him over and over again; he remembers the _despair_ of his little sister, of being unable to protect her, of watching her being buried by her _murderer_ , he remembers Julian Alfred Pankratz and the life he had lived until he had been killed and replaced by one Jaskier of Nowhere.)

He remembers his past life like it’s shrouded in a cloud, mist, fog of forgetting, like his memories are corrupted by the relative joy of Jaskier. But he doesn’t _want_ to remember Julian Alfred Pankratz, he wants to live in the now despite the absolute _pain_ that calls back to the last time he was abandoned like that, the last time he was _murdered_ by someone he called a _friend_. He supposes that Geralt had been right. They weren’t friends, and he can see that now, as clearly as anything. 

He thinks that maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s time to kill off another alter-ego, another garment made of the same cloth, discarded for the same reason. He successfully got rid of any traces of Julian, maybe it’s time to get rid of any traces of Jaskier - he’s thinking something like Dandelion, or Marigold. The thing is, that he doesn’t know if he can bear to let go of everything that made Jaskier, it will be so much harder to let go of tentative happiness than it was to let go of perpetual sadness and _nothingness._ (But maybe the sound of his heart shattering in his chest, digging _shards_ into his lungs and forcing _splinters_ into his mind, will be enough to erase the memories of Geralt of Rivia and his Witcher.) 

But the bleed-through of Julian into Jaskier is _agonising_. He can’t ever remember a time he’d been closer to Julian than at the precipice separating Jaskier and what comes after. And maybe he’s crazy, maybe he’s lost his sanity, maybe he’s deranged, but the relief of the blood of Jaskier leaving him, leaving him alone is so _satisfying_. (It feels a lot like the _discipline_ Julian Alfred Pankratz used to welcome to know when he did something wrong. It feels a lot like _death_ and _destiny_ , _heroics_ and _heartbreak_. It feels a lot like _pain_ and _punishment._ ) 

He doesn’t get very far into letting go of Jaskier, of letting go of all the pain, suffering and _memories_. He’s all alone this time, no memory of friendship, no thought of relation, no remembrance of kindness. (His beautiful, kind, sweet, _pure_ sister, dug into a grave by her own _murderer_.) He’s been alone before, but Jaskier didn’t have enough of a personality back then to care, and it wasn’t that deep. (It was _never_ that deep.) His soul is black as tar, painted by the blood of his birth, and there’s an emptiness there, accessed only by the sharpest of blades. (The sword of a Witcher is something to be feared.)

It’s time for Jaskier to speak plainly. It’s time for the _Witcher’s bard_ to stop existing and in its place will rise a new figure, a name on the tip of its tongue and blood drying on its hands, blood that will never wash out, the memory of the past wiped out like it’s shrouded in a cloud, mist, fog of forgetting that he’ll never want to breach. (Not until the silver-tongue of a Witcher forces it open.)

It’s time to forgive and forget. It’s time to say goodbye to those he had met, to say goodbye to the forest surrounding him. It’s time to forgive those words, spoken with haste, spoken with anger, spoken with _power_ , ( _“If life could give me one blessing…”_ ) to forgive the true sword of a Witcher. It’s time to forget the pain, the suffering, the _constant,_ unending _loneliness._ He’s so alone. All the time, now. He can’t stand the company of others, but neither can he stand his own company. (Maybe he can see the Witcher’s point of view. He’s surprised the Witcher could stand him for so long, but… maybe not, it’s not hard to be better than Jaskier at something.)

He doesn’t get very far into letting go of Jaskier before he’s stopped. He’s halted and he doesn’t know _why_. He can get no further into pushing the knife into his arm, letting all the poison drip, drip, drip out in a veritable flood of _it’s over, it’s over, it’s over_. His arm is held, his hand is paused in its tragic last descent, tracing the path of Jaskier’s birthmark (Julian’s _suicide scar,_ ) carving out a matching set in some kind of fucked-up muscle memory. (He half-wishes he was playing Filavandrel’s lute (not his; _never_ his.))

Jaskier was once just a pseudonym created to mask what Julian didn’t want to show. Jaskier was once just a separate personality that helped Julian sink into the unknown. Jaskier was once just a last thought on the mind of one Julian Alfred Pankratz. Jaskier once assisted his own birth through his has-been’s death. Jaskier is now sitting on a forest floor, the sharp, metallic tang of blood tainting the natural perfume of the woodland. His final rites recited by his _murderer_ (just like his once-sister, isn’t that ironic?) 

The calloused palm halts his progress, interrupting the granting of his last wish ( _“I wish very badly to leave this place forever!”_ ) The Witcher wasn’t the only one to wish damnation upon Jaskier, and it seems like he’s the only one to stop his wish from being granted ( _"I just want some damn peace!”_ ) A whisper of “Witcher” echoes throughout the forest, forced from Jaskier’s throat, a plea, _begging_ for both peace and re-birth. 

A sob escapes, startling Jaskier. He’s not prepared for emotion, not prepared for kindness, not prepared for someone to care enough to stop him. It’s so much harder to let go of tentative happiness than it was to let go of perpetual sadness. The splinters in his mind dig in deeper, and Jaskier can’t _fucking_ stand it, can’t stand the shards stealing his breath, can’t stand the shattered heart being cradled by this _Witcher._ This Witcher, which, according to myth, can’t feel anything, so why should he have any _right_ to Jaskier’s love? Because Jaskier falls in love with everything and everyone, and Geralt is no different. He knows not the experience of love, but he knows all of its feeling and the pain that induces. (And Geralt is no different, however much he wishes he was. It’s _bullshit_ that Witchers can’t feel anything when Geralt is no different.)

He doesn’t get very far into letting go of Jaskier before he’s brought into the arms of a Witcher. He doesn’t get very far before _Geralt_ pulls out the beautiful ( _kind, sweet, pure_ ) knife out of the pale skin of his arm and wraps his birthmark ( _suicide scar_ ) with a pale white bandage, and puts pressure on the wound. And Jaskier is so _confused_ because Witchers hunt monsters, and isn’t Jaskier the greatest monster, the worst _abomination_ in the world? (Soul _black_ as tar, painted by the _blood_ of his _birth._ )

His tears soak the fabric underneath the Witcher’s armour where he’s held, head to shoulder, spine curved around his waist. The scent of his blood is overpowering, the foul odour sinking into the memories of the forest, sinking into the leather of the Witcher’s armour, sinking into the bond between them. A bond forged by _blood_ and _tears_. 

He can’t stop sobbing. He can’t stop crying and being absolutely _pathetic._ He can hear the whispered apologies Geralt murmurs into his hair, the whispered “ _forgive me”_ ’s that Jaskier wants to respond to, wants to say, _“I already have,”_ but he doesn’t, his breath wasted on weeping. 

He thought he was all alone this time. No Jaskier to help pave the way to Julian Alfred Pankratz’s murder, but maybe he doesn’t need a Jaskier. Maybe he just needs a Geralt. He doesn’t need an assist, he needs a way to _stop_. He needs someone to _stop him._ He’d been alone before, but he’s not alone now. He’s downright _surrounded_ , his thoughts chased away to make room for Geralt of Rivia. And Jaskier may not _deserve_ to travel with someone like Geralt, _hell,_ he may not deserve to do _anything,_ but does anyone really deserve what they’re given? Does anyone deserve pain, pleasure, suffering, satisfaction? (Does anyone deserve _death_ and _destiny, heroics_ and _heartbreak?_ ) 

He’s all alone this time, and he’s been alone before, and he’ll be alone again. It’s cyclical, just like all the best ballads, he finds. And it may never have been this deep, this _devastating_ , but he finds that he’s not _truly_ alone. (Julian Alfred Pankratz was murdered with his greatest friend at his side, pushing the knife. But Jaskier of Nowhere was saved by his greatest friend at his side, holding the knife back.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. But, hopeful ending? *hugs* I promise, I love this character.


End file.
